Unveiled
by hashtagartistlife
Summary: "I— I want you to fuck me like you don't know me—" "Rukia—" "I want you to use me, Ichigo." [Ichiruki] [warnings: nsfw]


**Mizulily and I spend way too much time talking about the sex lives of fictional characters for two people who are supposedly ace, smh. Anyway, this is like 3000 words of PWP smut so, uh, have at it you sinners. (This was affectionately titled 'Dominant Ichigo fic' in my WIP folders, and that tells you everything you need to know about this fic t b h.) There's a slight bit of character analysis at the bottom that inspired this fic, if you're interested.**

* * *

 **Unveiled**

by _hashtagartistlife_

Rukia in bed is absolutely obscene.

It surprises Ichigo at first, just how responsive she is to his touch; how the slightest brush of his fingertips against her bare skin is enough to send her into convulsions. The way her head lolls back, the way her lips part and thready moans slip from them with every touch of his body against hers is both a blessing and a curse for Ichigo in the early days of their relationship. He struggles to maintain what little control he has over the encounters and himself; it's difficult to last very long when he is so inexperienced and she is so wildly seductive. The worst part, he decides, is that she has no idea of the effect she has on him. Her reactions to him are genuine, uncalculated, and their artlessness just makes her that much more desperately attractive to him.

Later, when they've both had a little more experience and practise at being together (enough so that a single moan doesn't threaten to undo him, at any rate), he finds that he wants to see how far he can push her before she _breaks_ in his arms. How far can he keep her on edge, making those beautiful ragged sounds, before she gives in and begs him to let her come? How hard can he dig his fingers into the white skin of her hips before the fragile blood vessels beneath them burst like overripe fruit and paint her the same blue-purple shade as her eyes? How tight can he wrap his hands around the slender delicate parts of her til his claim is etched onto her body and the moans of pleasure slipping from her lips become edged with the heady intoxication of pain?

They are fleeting thoughts at first. He shies away from them, from the possession and violence inherent in them; he loves Rukia too much to act on such thoughts. But still, some dark part of him persists, every time he takes her to bed and pulls those broken, wanting sounds from her throat. It doesn't matter how much he enjoys (oh god, too much, _way too much_ ) her pinning him down and having her way with him, or how much he likes being between her legs with her fingers pulling at his hair, or how nothing compares to the feel of her astride him, riding him into next week; some part of him, he concludes resignedly, will always wonder what it's like to have her _ruined_ beneath him and know he did it. But he never lets it get any further than that, just a small unsated curiosity at the back of his mind, because the last thing he ever, ever wants to do is _hurt_ her.

So when the chance comes for him to find out, he is entirely unprepared.

She's splayed out on their shared bed, Captain's haori in disarray and a low moan rising in her throat as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slides into her. The breath chokes in his lungs as she tightens around him, the tremors of her orgasm still wracking through her body. He grits his teeth and moves through the convulsions; keeping her there, driving her higher. She stutters his name — _'I-chi-go'_ in three distinct syllables — and clutches at his shoulders, eyes screwed shut and mouth falling open in a perfect 'o' that makes him want to kiss her senseless. He does.

He shifts and pulls her flush against him, sealing their hips together and grinding slow circles the way he knows she likes; he has a sudden, desperate urge to make her feel _good_ , so good that she forgets everything but the feel of him against her, around her, _in_ her. He wants to make her let go of her tightly held responsibility for a while, to relinquish control and just _feel_ ; he wants to make sure she feels nothing but pleasure. He wants, he _wants_ —

He wants _her._

"Tell me where it feels good, Rukia," he pants, dropping kisses onto sweat-slicked skin; she makes an aborted sound at the back of her throat when he laves his tongue over a breast. "Tell me what you want, ok?"

She cracks an eye open to look at him; she wets her lips before she finds her voice. "Ichigo— I— _ah!—"_

"Tell me what you want," he whispers, lost in the way she looks, the way she feels. He bites down on a breast — gently— and suckles, relishing the way her head snaps back and bares the white column of her throat to him. "Tell me what you want, Rukia. I want you to feel good."

"I want— _ah_ — I want you to — oh god, _Ichigo_ — I want you to— _ah — fuck_ me—"

A breathy chuckle forces its way out of his lungs; he leans in closer and kisses her on the nose. "What did you think we were doing, exactly?"

Her eyelids flutter in time with his rolling hips. "Not— not like this—" she stammers, putting a hand on his chest to slow him down; he obliges, but doesn't stop. She looks at him, then, really looks at him, and bites her lip so hard that all the blood drains from them and leaves them white as her sword. Ichigo has the feeling she's trying to tell him something important, so he listens.

"I— I want you to fuck me like you don't know me—"

 _"_ _Rukia—"_ he chokes, but she ignores him and steamrollers on.

"I— I want you to _use_ me, Ichigo."

All the breath snaps out of his lungs; he feels like every drop of blood in his body has turned to gasoline and someone just took a match to him. Rukia's still under him, matching his thrusting hips with her own, eyes wide and dark like bruises and lips parted almost guiltily as though she'd just admitted something scandalous. In a way, she has. Ichigo'd be a liar if he said he never thought about it, but _Rukia_ — Rukia who kicks his ass every day of the week and twice on Sundays just to be extra sure — he would never have expected this from _her._

"Fuck," he curses, his hips stumbling a little in their sure rhythm he drives into her just a tiny bit harder. "Are you sure, Rukia? In— in what way do you want me to—?"

"Don't ask me questions," she interrupts breathlessly, trailing her fingers over his lips; he takes two of them into his mouth and bites down, just hard enough to leave the indentations of his teeth in her flesh. She shudders. "Don't ask me if I feel good, don't ask me if I'm ok, don't be so fucking gentle with me — oh, god, Ichigo, sometimes I don't want to be _me_. Fuck me like you paid for m—"

She doesn't finish the sentence. The rest of her words are cut off by a sharp cry as he yanks her head back by the hair and sinks his teeth into her shoulder. He doesn't break the skin, but it's a close thing; when he lifts his mouth away the skin there is livid and raised, red-purple blooming across the pale snow of her body like scattered drops of blood. Something about it stirs something repressed and primal in him.

Red was a good colour on her.

"Got it," he rasps, voice gone low and dark, and he slides out of her with a wet _slick_ ; he ignores her half-formed noises of protest and grips her wrists in his hands, hard like he's always fantasised. She was so _skinny_ ; all his fingers meet his palm and then some. He crushes, hoping his white-knuckled grip will leave bruises, a sign that he'd been with her tonight. Her breath hitches in her throat and he grins, fleeting and feral, before he flips her around, hands at her hip, and slams back into her without warning. She cries out and tries to muffle it against the sheets; he grips her by her hair and pulls her back up, far enough that her back is arching. Every muscle in her body is taut, her brow furrowed with the tiniest hint of pain, and he thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful.

"Don't hide from me," he murmurs in her ear, deceptively softly before he bites down on her earlobe. She lets out something that is almost a squeak and jumps in his arms. His hips set a punishing pace, snapping in and out of her as hard as he dares; it's almost painful for him, so he knows it's definitely painful for her, but she doesn't show it except for biting down so hard on her lip he thinks she's going to draw blood. His hand is still anchored in her hair, and he tugs at it experimentally, keeping her curved in that brutal and lovely arch. Rukia's hands fist in the sheets, shredding them to ribbons.

When she cries out for the second time that night, it's more pain than pleasure; Ichigo stills his hips immediately, relinquishing his grip on her hair and drawing her close to him. He cradles her against him, back to his chest, and rains down frantic questions at her. "Shit, Rukia, I'm sorry— are you ok? Does it hurt? Was that too much— shit, I'm sorry—"

But then she turns to him, pupils blown dark and wide with lust, and begs him— _begs him!_ — to keep going, to never stop, and Ichigo loses any semblance of rationality right there and then.

He pins her wrists to the bed from behind her, pushes her down onto the mattress till her voice is muffled by the sheets; he fucks her like he's trying to break her, and relishes every broken sound out of her mouth. Her moaning is a continuous thing, now, pitching in time with his thrusts. She chokes out his name and he lifts her by the throat so that her back is flush against his chest; she's so light that it's no trouble thrusting up into her, supporting her body weight on his thighs.

"Who said you could talk?" he breathes, and punctuates this by digging his fingers into the soft flesh of her neck; this time, when her breaths become edged with pain, he does not stop or slow down.

"Th— thought you wanted to hear my voice—" Rukia stutters out. Ichigo laughs darkly.

"Can't believe you're still mouthing off to me, even after you were begging me to use you."

"Well, what are you gonna do about i— mmpf."

"Who said you could talk?" Ichigo reiterates, two of his fingers thrusting into Rukia's mouth, mimicking the motion of his hips. Rukia chokes around his fingers, throat closing in around the digits, and he feels a dark thrill go through him at the thought of her doing that around his cock. He takes his fingers out of her mouth and trails them over her body, leaving a glistening track of saliva over the skin. He pulls out of her and throws her onto her back, before following the saliva track with his tongue and slamming back into her.

"Ah—" she clutches around him, and he's not going to last much longer— Ichigo gives himself over to the mounting pleasure in his stomach, spreading like fire through his veins. Rukia heaves under him, and his hands make their way around her throat once more. She looks up at him, heavy-lidded and hazy-eyed, and Ichigo thinks there's one more thing he could do to make this picture perfect: he leans down and kisses her, then bites her lip and draws blood.

Rukia arches up against him violently; the way her muscles are fluttering around him tell him she's close. When he pulls back again to survey his handiwork, she's a mess. Face flushed, hair slicked with sweat and tears, blood smeared across her mouth from a split lip, chest heaving to draw breath.

He's never wanted her more in his life.

Her expression contorts in either pleasure or pain, he can't tell which, and her nails dig into his biceps; her lips part soundlessly, and Ichigo decides he wants to hear her as she comes, wants to hear her voice as ragged and ruined as she looks right now. His hands tighten around her neck and her eyes fly open; Ichigo bites back the pleasure threatening to overwhelm him and orders her—

"Beg."

It takes her a while to gather enough air in her lungs to reply. "I-Ichigo—"

"Beg for it, Rukia."

He doesn't stop thrusting into her, but deliberately changes his angle so that he won't hit her where she needs it; a frustrated noise rises from the back of her throat and he persists, keeping her on edge. Rukia stares at him, almost defiant, for one second, two, before she relents and says in a rush—

"P-please."

Ichigo groans and changes his angle again, this time to one that he knows will make her come fast and hard; Rukia gasps and screws her eyes shut. "I-Ichigo, please, _please,_ m-make me c— _ah—!"_

"Look at me," he says, the tone of his voice more a plea than an order this time, and Rukia obliges. The violet of her eyes are edged with flashes of ecstasy, and Ichigo loses his rhythm, loses everything; all he knows is the colour of her eyes, the intensity of her gaze as it bores into his. "Look at me, Rukia, look at— _fuck!"_

The violence of her orgasm takes him by surprise and draws his own from him; his vision hazes white as she clamps down around him, her whole body shuddering with the contractions. Ichigo holds onto her tiny frame like a lifeline, burying his cries in the skin of her shoulder where his teeth have found purchase. He rides out the waves with his face in the crook of her neck and his hands wrapped around her wrists, losing himself to the sensation of their bodies joined in pleasure.

When he comes back to himself, he's cradled in Rukia's arms, just below her breast; one of her hands cup his chin gently and the other feathers through his hair, brushing it back from his face. He swipes his tongue out at her fingers and traces them lazily; he feels, rather than hears, the tired chuckle in her chest. He catches her wandering hands as they slip from his face, and kisses each one of her fingertips before sliding his lips over her palm, her wrist. Her breath catches, and he props himself up on an elbow to look at her. She looks tired but relaxed, her gaze soft and drowsy in a way that it hasn't been in weeks. She smiles at him languidly.

"You alright?" he asks, voice rough; she laughs.

"Thought I told you not to ask me questions," she says, still a little breathless from their earlier exertions. He refuses to get sidetracked, though, and brushes her cheek with the backs of his fingers before placing a careful kiss on her lips. Her eyelids flutter shut as she reciprocates, and they do nothing but focus on kissing for a few minutes, soft and light.

"Seriously, though," he says when they break apart, and dangles her arm in front of her face; he makes a show of wrapping his hand around the limb, matching his fingers to the blue-purple that's slowly mottling the skin. He studies her like a hawk, watching her flush and avert her eyes, and waits for her response. Now that the cloud of lust in his mind has somewhat dissipated, her earlier words echo in his ears. _I want you to use me, Ichigo. Sometimes I don't want to be_ _ **me.**_

"Ichigo," she breathes, and she won't look at him. "Can we… not?"

He had a feeling she would say that. He thinks he has an inkling of what it is, anyway, and he won't push her; he knows, eventually, that she will come to him with the full story. When she's ready. Till then, he will do what he can for her; and if this is what she wants, what she needs in the interim, he will do it.

 _Not that it's a chore in any way_ , he thinks a little ruefully, before dropping a quick kiss on her temple. "Fine," he acquiesces, and she visibly relaxes in his arms. "You'll talk to me sometime, though, yeah?"

"Thank you," she murmurs, burying her face into his chest. "And of course. Just…. Not right now."

He nods, wraps his arms around her tight; enough to pull her flush against him, but not so tight that it would hurt her. They rest like that a little while, before she whispers something inaudible into his skin and he strains to hear her.

"Sorry, what?"

"I liked it, though," she repeats, a little louder; she looks up at him, and there's no shame in her gaze, no embarrassment. "I liked what we did— what you did. I liked it a lot, Ichigo."

She coughs, then adds in a low voice, "I wouldn't be averse to it happening again."

He stares at her for a minute, before pulling her to him again; he rests her head under his chin, her hands crushed against his heart. His fingers card through her hair, curving around her scalp gently; he buries his face in the dark strands and breathes.

"I'll tell you a secret," he whispers into her, like he wants the words to soak through her and engrave themselves into her bones. Like she can absorb the confession behind them into her body, and prevent any part of it leaking out and being lost to the air. He wants her to catch every word and syllable of his revelation and keep it caged in her chest, something secret and clandestine that only she would be allowed to know:

"I liked it, too," he says, and feels her lips curving into a smile against his neck. They'll come back to the conversation at a later date. For now, they both latch onto this strange new thing between them, and it's enough that they'll explore it the way they have always done everything else. _Together._

* * *

 **So the skype chat that inspired this fic went a little like this:**

 **Sera Lee (me): dude also im p sure half the reason why i enjoy ichigo being the one aggressive about sex is because like**

 **Sera Lee: he's so in love with her and he's much more...**

 **Sera Lee: open about it?**

 **Sera Lee: than rukia is?**

 **Eldritch Hipster (aka mizulily): mhm**

 **Sera Lee: so like in my head it makes sense that when they slide into physical intimacy**

 **Sera Lee: he just wants to get closer, closer, closer to her**

 **Sera Lee: closer**

 **Sera Lee: all the time**

 **Sera Lee: and that slips so easily into possessiveness**

 **Eldritch Hipster: If he's so forward about the mental aspect of love, he's definitely aggressive about the physical aspects**

 **Sera Lee: and wanting to mark her and just**

 **Sera Lee: YEAH**

 **Eldritch Hipster: and like...Rukia wanting to be a little used**

 **Sera Lee: ^^^^^**

 **Eldritch Hipster: Rukia wanting to be a little bit...beneath him**

 **Sera Lee: 'Rukia wanting to be a little bit...beneath him' holy fuck holy fuck**

 **Eldritch Hipster: bc they're always such equals she wants him to take the position over her she wants him to put her in a lower place she wants -**

 **Eldritch Hipster: she wants him to use her**

 **Eldritch Hipster: she wants to lose sense of personhood for a while**

 **Sera Lee: OH MY GOD**

 **Sera Lee: FUCK?!**

 **Sera Lee: I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS CHARA INTERPRETATION**

 **Sera Lee: FUCK**

 **Sera Lee: SHE**

 **Sera Lee: SHE _WOULD_**

 **Eldritch Hipster: she's always carrying such a presence about her; captain Kuchiki now. Lady Kuchiki of the noble house of Kuchiki she wants to be-**

 **Eldritch Hipster: none of that for a while**

 **Sera Lee: she wants to be a nobody for a while**

 **Sera Lee: GOD**

 **Eldritch Hipster: just him and the absence of her**

 **Sera Lee: THIS IS FUCKING CANON THOUGH**

 **Sera Lee: not to this extent but**

 **Sera Lee: she wants to be treated as just another person she hates being singled out**

 **Sera Lee: Like…. She was canonically insecure she was canonically unsure of herself and I just… I mean, I love 'strong ass could and would kill a man Kuchiki Rukia' but I don't think that kind of shit just GOES AWAY just bc u win a few battles and look like a goddess while doing so u feel**

 **So that was how this fic came to be. Take that how you will ;;;;;;;;;;;**


End file.
